


Like Gravity

by JWAB



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Recasting that one night stand, don't drink and drive my friends, whiskey and good decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB
Summary: “Tell me why you ain’t sleepin’.”“Why don’t we drink about it instead?”





	Like Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [latbfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/latbfan/gifts).



“Your mind ain’t right yet.”

Wynonna was _fine_ as long as she didn’t close her eyes. Or interact with anyone. Or remember anything. Hence, whiskey. Buckets of it, ideally.

“And another one o’ those ain’t goin’ to help.”

“Wrong,” she said, her head a little light on her neck. She’d only had two. Probably. Three at the most, but she’d been here awhile, and come to think of it, fuck it. But when he gently slid the tumbler out of her hand, she didn’t have it in her to fight him.  

And then Doc wrapped an admittedly comforting, strong arm around her waist and said — might have been whispered — “I am takin’ you home now.”

He had a good quiet voice. Low and rumbly.

What he didn’t have was a car to back up his chivalry. She had the truck, though, and like a gentleman he opened the door for her. Also like a gentleman, he was notably attentive on the drive home, pointing out the color of the traffic lights and when she might be losing track of where the lanes on the road were.

 

* * *

 

“Now you’re here, might as well have a drink.”

Doc tipped his hat — touched the front of the brim, not even a tip, just shy of a bow — and thanked her, still standing outside on her porch. “You should get some sleep.”

“I don’t wanna sleep.”

Doc smiled that knowing smile that was somehow a little predatory and warm at the same time. It was a good smile. Wynonna liked it.

“Sleep is for wimps,” she added, to keep him smiling. “Now if you don’t want me to drink a whole bottle of whiskey alone, come in and help.”

Doc took a deep breath, a kind of put-upon sigh almost, and took a rangy step over her threshold.

Wynonna poured each of them a generous glass and sat down in the living room, in front of the empty, cold fireplace. He took a seat in the armchair beside her, slowly, with control. Grace, even. She held her glass up at him and thought about making a toast: to what? Alcohol’s numbing effect? Not ever getting a medical procedure done again under any circumstances? Not dying on the way home?

Doc?

She owed him her life. Such as it was. Him and Dolls.

She never wanted to be vulnerable like that again.

“Hey,” Doc said, and she realized she’d been thinking too long. And he’d been watching her.

She took the entire glassful in one gulp.

“How are you feelin'?”

Nope, Wynonna did not want to get into this. “Perfect.”

“Lyin’ does not become you, Wynonna.”

She liked the way he said her name. Why-nonna. Like the first syllable was a cul-de-sac he couldn’t quite turn all the way around in.

“You know, I am on your side.”

“I know,” Wynonna said, reaching a hand out to pat his knee. She didn’t manage it, though — it was more of a bat, in retrospect, like trying to smack a fruit fly. “I know you are.”

“Tell me why you ain’t sleepin’.”

“Why don’t we drink about it instead?”

“You could. Plenty of men and women have drowned their sorrows and fears. Includin' myself, more often than I care to admit.”

“That’s my plan.”

“But you are of another stripe altogether. You are Wynonna Earp, the heir herself, strikin’ fear in the hearts of revenants far and wide.”

Wynonna shook her head and the room seemed to her to shake with it. “I wish that was enough. But it didn’t matter today. I wasn't... I was meat, Doc. I was meat on a table.”

“No. He was a madman. Always was.”

“Seems like everybody out here is mad some way.”

Doc smiled at that, to himself it seemed. “You have got to let yourself sleep.”

“I can’t even lie down. I can’t close my eyes.” There was a hitch in her voice and she didn’t have it in her to hide it. “It’s all I can see or hear. It’s taking up my whole head.”

Doc’s eyebrows knit together.

“So I’d rather just pass out here on the couch.” She wanted to pour herself another glass, but she’d stupidly left the bottle in the kitchen and she couldn’t trust the room to stay put if she stood up.

Doc was watching her again, like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Then he poured the rest of his whiskey down his throat and rose to his feet. He held out his hand, palm up, like an offering. “Here,” he said, firm but tender.

Wynonna was confused for long enough to give him a questioning look, and then realized he was waiting for her hand. She gave it to him.

He helped her up. It was easier than she expected, standing like this, with him to steady her.

 

* * *

 

Doc led Wynonna to her bedroom, time both too languid and way too fast for her to think through what was coming. He guided her to the edge of her bed and slowly knelt in front of her, keeping hold of her as he went, her arms down to her hands, then her thighs, not tight but firm, down past her knees to her boots. He unzipped them, one by one, and eased them off, setting them against the wall behind him. Gently, with care. Then he stood, slowly again, fingertips dragging back up her legs and that _had_ to be on purpose and bless him for it, it felt amazing, and then he was tugging at the top button of her jeans.

“You gonna take advantage of me in my compromised state?” Wynonna blurred, teasing. Hopeful. There were eyebrows.

He slid her jeans down her legs, eyes on hers every inch of the way. “What kind of man do you take me for?” More eyebrows. His, this time. Very good eyebrows. Cool, somehow.

Wynonna couldn’t think of an answer to that. She couldn’t really think of anything but his smirk under that mustache and the way his hips moved as he walked away from her, into the kitchen. She listened as the water was turned on, the pitch of the faucet rose, then the thunk of the water being turned off again. Doc returned, standing in the doorway with a glass of water.

“Now, you drink this and then I will get you another.” Two strides and he was standing in front her again. And she wasn’t wearing pants.

Part of her wanted to climb him like a tree.

Part of her wasn’t sure how she got home.

She took the glass from Doc’s hand and drained it in loud, unapologetic gulps.

When she handed him back the empty glass, he gave her a one-sided smile. “Be right back,” he said in that low, rumbly whisper, that very good, very _effective_ whisper. She was pretty sure he could tell her to do almost anything in that whisper and she’d do it. She felt herself moan a little, imagining it.

Doc came back with two glasses and set them on her night table. Then he sat beside her, almost but not quite touching her — on her bed, not in a stony forest clearing, but warm and clean — ish — and here for her. Doc, the bass line of her life as it was now. She watched him pull his own boots off and thought about the wild west, thought about time collapsing in on her, the past and the present, one strange origami moment. She thought about the reality of his arms and his shoulders and the bend of his back and his legs and what the word ‘sinewy’ really meant. This is what it meant: this body of his, strong and useful.

“After you,” he said, and pulled the covers back for her.

He was going to stay.

She smiled at him. He was going to stay. With her. He was going to protect her, as best he could, from her own errant mind.

Thank God for him. It wouldn’t work, but thank God for him anyway.

She climbed into the middle, leaving room for him. He stripped down to his shorts and undershirt and slid in beside her.

“Now, come here.” That voice, that warm, low whisper, right in her ear, and his arm around her shoulder, curling her against him until her ear was over his heart, improbably beating after all this time.

She braced herself for a flash of the surgical table, of Jack’s awful face.

Doc’s arm was firm across her back. He held her against him. “You are goin’ to be all right.”

“I don’t see how.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You are safe. Memories cannot harm you, and Jack is gone. You put that dog down.”

“Only thanks to you,” she protested.

“Well,” and she could hear the grin in his voice, “I am not goin’ anywhere.”

He started humming a slow song into her hair. And when her tears started, he held her tighter, murmuring, “I got you.” There weren’t that many tears after all, not wrapped up in Doc this way, and blessed sleep did finally come, just like he said it would.

 

* * *

 

Wynonna was already moving against Doc, or he was moving against her, when she realized she was more awake than asleep. It was still night; every surface was drenched in a blue glow. But now Doc was on his side now facing her, and she was facing him, and their hips were trying to get even closer together. Her head was pillowed on his folded arm, on the soft, sweet inside of his bicep, and his other arm was dangerously low across her hip. Her face was buried between his shoulder and his head, the charcoal smell of him all around her. She hooked her leg around his knee and with a heavy breath he took it further, pushing his leg tight between her thighs.

Whatever this was, it started when neither of them were looking.

That was a lie. They both had their bleary eyes wide open when they climbed into this bed. And Wynonna, for one, had been hoping for something just like this.

Just for a second, she stopped. She got into bed fall-down, need-rescuing drunk. So how drunk was she now? 

Doc waited for her, almost like she’d asked him to. He had this intuitive connection with her, she kept running into it, and here it was again — Wynonna, _focus_.

She felt for the spin of the room — nothing. She opened her eyes to Doc’s pale skin in the mottled, curtained moonlight. She took inventory of what she knew: Purgatory, check; curse, check; Peacemaker, check; Waverley, check; Dolls, check.

Doc? Triple check.

She wasn’t exactly sober, but she had slept off most of the whiskey thanks to Doc. Finally, she could think.

“You all right?” Doc asked when she let out her breath.

She kissed him her answer, and her gratitude, and her reassurance, and when that kiss opened up, she thrust down into his thigh.

And because he was her reliable, improbable Doc, he tightened his grip on her ass and held her close against him.

Oh yeah, he knew how to use that thigh — or how to let _her_ use it. He absorbed every push and gave it right back to her, keeping up just enough pressure that if she wanted to, she could come without anything else. Just his body against hers, constant, urgent, and warm. And his mouth, _Jesus_ , his mouth hungrily sucking at hers.

When she leaned him back, he slipped his hands up under her shirt and she was glad to get rid of it. She knelt and pulled it over her head, and he took it all in with a sly, satisfied smile. She reached behind her back to unfasten her bra, noting with delight the loss of eye contact when she let the fabric slip down her arms.

“I do enjoy the sight of you, my dear.”

“You are not at all bad either,” she said, and reached for the hem of his undershirt.

Stronger than he had any right to be, he sat up and pulled it over his head, then lifted them both with his hips to slip his shorts off.

Wynonna stopped trying to make her face behave. She couldn’t get enough of him. What was the use of pretending she could?

He fingered the waistband of her panties. “Shame to lose these pretty things,” he murmured, but she eased him back into the pillows, lying over him so he could push them down her legs as far as he could reach, then she kicked them onto the floor.

And then it was just them, no barriers. He was fire hot under her and she couldn’t bear to wait. She kissed him and he held her there against his chest, against the length of his torso, rearranging himself under her, legs between hers, hands on her hips where they flared widest, gathering himself for whatever she might want to do.

She wanted _him_. Forget consequences, forget being smart, being careful. Forget this awful job she couldn’t quit. Forget if this might make things weirder between them. She wanted Doc and it didn’t matter to her that she needed him in any other way, on any other day. Right now, she needed him _this_ way. And the truth was, he could make his own decisions. If he didn’t want this then he wouldn’t be here, eagerly stripping them both down to their skin.

He felt fantastic against her. Just the right combination of hard and soft — hard muscle and bone, skin soft as suede. And the way he held her made her feel wanted and free at the same time. She couldn’t remember the last time it’d been like this.

She thought she knew what to expect, after their first time, but this was something new. No hurry — instead of desperation there was something warmer, almost luxurious about this. He thrust up against her, slid his cock along her slit. It was maddeningly good, the way he was with her: under her, but not at her mercy. He thrust again and grimaced, like it felt so good it kinda hurt.

It really did feel that good.

She only needed to hold his cock still to — _there_ , just inside, and then, slower than she thought she could stand it, she curled her hips to take him deeper.

He seemed to sense she wanted to make this last, wanted to feel every inch, and maybe he did, too. The moonlight caught the tip of Doc’s tongue as he bit his lip, holding back; Wynonna licked into his mouth for a kiss as slow as their hips. His breath was gritty and low, half a groan. Hers trembled in her throat.

If she wasn’t careful, she would come to need this — him — for good and always.

They took it slow at first, sure, and then a little faster, and at some point Wynonna didn’t notice until it had passed Doc started to thrust up into her with more intensity. On top this way, she knew she could come, just had to change the angle, sit up a bit and there it was, in the not too distant distance, made all the more delicious when Doc’s mouth fell open and his eyes locked with hers. He lifted one hand from her hip and laid it against her neck, so tender, as if to frame her face. As if to memorize it. She set their rhythm and he followed it like the best of dance partners, rising into every thrust, there for her until she felt it starting, that giddy, messy rush. He might have felt it but she knew he saw it on her face, she registered his recognition, his elation before he let himself go. And when he did — his head falling back, so exposed and reckless — she fell a little bit in love with him.

Fuck it: a little bit _more_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fucking SHOW... I have the world's worst timing, but I'm irrevocably hooked. So come bother me on tumblr, where I am also JWAB, and we can commiserate about literally everyone in Purgatory and how very much they deserve to be happy.


End file.
